


Remember

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Heartbeat Kink, Heartbeats, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovered Memories, implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 02:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17336648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: “I remember kissing you.” he says slowly, and if the tremor in his voice would just stop, he might even feign indifference with the words. When Steve doesn’t respond right away, Bucky absolutely can’t bring himself to turn and look again. So he continues on, “Pretty stupid, right?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My incredibly self-indulgent first attempt at this fandom. Some over-cautious tagging for Chapter One. Chapter Two will be PWP pure and simple.

The problem with memories, for Bucky Barnes, is figuring out which ones are, in fact, memories at all. The trouble comes in separating past truths from dreams and nightmares, the way they all mingle and twist and turn to mud in his shattered mind. Except he’s fixed now, isn’t he? Shuri was meticulous, did all that could be asked and more. So why is he still questioning it?

He knows that this place feels like before, feels like  _ home _ . Not as small as back then—it had been a one-bedroom before, all cramped and tight, frigid in the winter and sweltering in the summer—but the feeling is still there. The feeling, he decides, is all in Steve. His presence is grounding, familiar, makes it feel like home. Makes it feel like the times before it all went to hell. 

It’s funny how, in retrospect, things were so  _ easy _ back then. Barely a pair of pennies to scrape together, barely making rent, barely holding it together when Steve was inevitably sick to what felt like the brink of death. He remembers all that and Bucky knows it’s true, because Steve can confirm it for him. Steve always tells him what’s real and what’s not.

The trouble comes in asking Steve if the  _ other  _ parts are memory. Is the taste of Steve’s lips on his something Bucky’s mind dug out of the past or conjured from fantasy? Is the slide of hands over a skinny chest pulled from the past or just lingering want, never acted on? It couldn’t have been acted on, though. It had been too dangerous back then, so forbidden, so impossible. He wouldn’t have put Steve at risk.

Then why does it feel so much  more like a memory than a dream? And how does Bucky sort it out, when the only person he  _ can  _ ask, he absolutely  _ cannot _ ?

His friendship with Steve is more important than anything else, Bucky doesn’t even begin to deny that. It’s got nothing to do with memories or dreams. It’s got to do with Steve, with the fact that he’s here, that he’s  _ always  _ been here. It’s got to do with the hope that he always will be. If he’s wrong, if it’s only a dream, then the question would be crossing the line, promising the end of it.

But the taste lingers on his lips as if it wasn’t forever ago, as if it certainly wasn’t only from his dreams. And that dream plagues him with increasing frequency and furiosity. It drives Bucky right to the edge of madness, where he’s sitting up in bed with a heaving chest and a pounding heart and he’s wishing, just wishing, that he had the courage to burst into Steve’s room and demand an answer.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s interrupted the other’s sleeping. It would only be the first time that it wasn’t all thanks to the thrashing and crying out that came with nightmares—nightmares that were  _ also  _ memories. No use in being a problem when he can avoid it, right? But, damn it, he’s becoming a problem all the same.

Bucky is struggling to keep the question under wraps, to keep the feeling to himself. There are certain things that he’s been sure of, that he didn’t need his brain rewired yet again to figure out. Chief among these is that he loves Steve Rogers, and that he’s done so for most of his admittedly unnatural life. He loved him when he was a scrawny punk, picking fights he couldn’t win. He loved him when he pulled Bucky away from that hell. Some part of him, some part that was still human still  _ him  _ loved him through the fights, loved him enough to pull him from that water against a mission. There’s no question in the feeling.

There’s question in reciprocation.

He finds himself looking at Steve, long and hard, trying to unpack what is real and what he only wishes was. And he stares. Because, God, is Steve worth staring at. All long lashes and perfect blue eyes, all hard muscle and perfect form. He’s always been a thing of beauty, but here where they hide in plain sight, with that damn beard, with his hair growing a little too long, Bucky is  _ painfully  _ in love. And he can’t remember if that’s okay.

He’s tried to ask it, in subtle ways. Tried to coax it out of Steve so carefully, as if he wasn’t playing with fire.

_ ‘Remember our old place? Piling in the same bed to stay warm.’ _

_ ‘You cold, Buck? I’ll turn up the heat.’ _

He only wanted to scream, only wanted to beg that Steve tell him it wasn’t his imagination. That his hands really did wander over Steve’s chest, then lower. That he really took him into his hand and worked him off, fingers sliding between his lips to quiet him, lips sliding down his throat to entice.  _ Just to stay warm _ , of course. Bucky remembers it so vividly it leaves him shifting in the couch, suddenly deciding that the heat of a shower is what he really needs.

There would be times that Bucky would think he was on the brink of a breakthrough, where Steve would open his mouth, draw in the breath to speak, then let whatever was on his tongue go unsaid. It was maddening, but it was impossible to push him further. If he wasn’t saying it, he wasn’t saying it for a  _ reason.  _ Maybe he knew. Maybe he already knew—always knew—what Bucky wanted to hear. Maybe he couldn’t give it to him, and this was his way of letting him down easy.

Bucky is a caged animal with the thoughts for days. He’s springing to every conclusion under the sun. Did it happen before, and Steve didn’t want it to? Did Bucky  _ force  _ something, without ever knowing? Was he being humored? Was he being allowed, because Steve was lonely and someone else’s lips were nice, someone else’s hand was nicer, for lack of anyone better? Or did it never happen in the first place?

Maybe Steve simply caught the hunger in Bucky’s eyes and saw right through him. Maybe Steve has always seen right through him, and that’s what made the hunger grow so angry and hot in his belly. Knowing, always knowing, never having, never  _ could  _ have. 

Bucky reaches his breaking point when the dream-of-a-maybe-memory fleshes out too much to stand any longer. He wakes up hard and throbbing, with the taste of Steve on his lips, with the feeling of their bodies pressed together still heating his skin. He presses his face into the pillow and he works himself off with Steve’s name huffed into the soft case, with the vision of a slender body beneath his as vivid as anything in the world, with an orgasm that has him groaning, deep and heavy, messing his sheets and sticking at his stomach and leaving him an entirely obviously guilty party when he finally emerges from his room.

Steve doesn’t say anything about the state of his hair, or about the crumpled sheets and pillowcase being thrown dutifully into the wash. He doesn’t say anything at all, but he looks at Bucky, and Bucky could swear he looks at him with some amusement, with some sense of  _ familiarity.  _ It’s too goddamn much.

So he corners Steve in the kitchen, where he’s against the counter with a mug of coffee, thumbing through the newspaper as if nothing is wrong, nothing is out of place. And nothing is, until Bucky speaks. They could have gone on forever without a care in the world, if Bucky could keep his mouth shut a moment longer. But he couldn’t, he can’t, he never stood a chance. Not with Steve in pajama bottoms and nothing fucking else. Not with all those perfect lines and delicious curves out on display. Not with Bucky feeling like a goddamn predator, not knowing the truth, not knowing reality from fantasy.

“What all do you remember, about our apartment back in Brooklyn?” Bucky’s tone is demanding, his eyes are hard. He can tell he takes Steve by surprise, the way he straightens himself up, sets the paper and the coffee down.

“I remember plenty. Gonna have to be more specific,” Steve’s words sound cautious and his expression crosses as guarded. Bucky is onto something, he’s sure he is. He wouldn’t be like this otherwise. He would be normal, open, a hint of a smile on those perfect lips. He wouldn’t be close to frowning, his brows knitting into a furrow. He wouldn’t be looking at Bucky as if something terrible were about to happen.

_ Shit. _

“You know what I mean. About us…about…” He makes a wide gesture with his right arm, one that means nothing at all. Because on the off chance this  _ is  _ all in his head, it doesn’t mean anything. But Steve has gone so stark still that Bucky doesn’t think it’s all in his head any more, doesn’t think it can be. He couldn’t dream up anything quite so nice, quite so perfect. So the question only remains—did he have it all wrong?

“What do  _ you _ remember?” Steve counters the question and it makes Bucky flush hot and cold all at once. He’s close to panic, and he realizes in an instant why he didn’t try to bring this up. He’s ready to beg Steve to forget he asked, to play it off as nothing at all, just trying to get a rise out of him. He’s ready to pretend that it was all a dream, to pray that it was all something his shitty, mixed-up mind conjured. But Steve’s eyes are on him and he stands straight, all gorgeous and towering and Bucky is lost again.

He keeps losing himself in Steve, in little moments where he looks so damn perfect, and he doesn’t want to stop. So he steels himself and he shrugs, then he turns away and tries to play it off. He puts on the act of going for a mug, on pouring himself some coffee. He has no real intention of drinking it, rather he swirls around some of the flavored cream he pours from the fridge and avoids answering the question for as long as either of them can bear it.

“I remember kissing you.” he says slowly, and if the tremor in his voice would just stop, he might even feign indifference with the words. When Steve doesn’t respond right away, Bucky absolutely can’t bring himself to turn and look again. So he continues on, “Pretty stupid, right? Brain’s still all scrambled. Hard to tell—”

“—That happened.” Steve interrupts the rambling excuse and it has Bucky setting the coffee down so he doesn’t drop it. His heart clenches up in his chest and he swears there’s suddenly sweat prickling at the back of his neck. So it was real. Real in parts, at least. Why can’t he remember exactly how Steve reacted, exactly how he felt? Was he so caught up in himself that he never paid it any mind?

“More than that, too.” Bucky sounds downright shameful with the admission. And still, he won’t look at Steve. He can’t look at Steve. He’s said too much and there’s no taking it back, nothing to do but wait for the shoe to drop. Nothing to do but face the rest of his life as alone as he fucking deserves.

“What else?” Steve, damn him, his voice is so calm, so even. Bucky can’t decipher what’s hidden behind that mask, not without looking at him, not without giving in and giving up. He doesn’t want to, he’s not ready, he should have just let it lie. Why couldn’t he just let it lie?

“Just...more. Other things. It doesn’t matter, I just…I wanted to know if it was real. Forget I said anything.” There’s a plea in his tone, something so desperate, so full of need. He needs Steve to believe that it was just idle curiosity. He needs Steve to let it be something they can move beyond, something they can leave as a single awkward blip in a line of solid, lasting friendship. That’s more important than some fucking wet dream. That’s more important than how Bucky  _ really  _ feels.

“Look at me, Buck,” Bucky feels a hand close around his arm and he doesn’t want to be turned in place so easily, but of course he is. Steve wants him to look, and Bucky has never been one to shy away from  _ that _ . He doesn’t know what he finds in Steve’s expression. There’s no easy answer there. He’s not horrified, but he looks close to hurt. He’s not happy, but his lips curl at the ends in a strange, pained way. “If you really wanna drop it, consider it dropped. But if you remember, and you wanna talk, then we should.”

_ If you remember.  _

That makes it real, then. All of it. He wasn’t mistaking those words, wasn’t misinterpreting that ‘more’. It had happened, all those years, all those lifetimes ago. And Steve was here, offering to talk. Bucky could just ask now, he could just spill his damn guts and find out once and for all. He has to, he has to calm himself, has to find a way to make the words come out. He nods, but he doesn’t speak for a long time.

What the hell does he say? They kissed. They touched. Steve’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes are on Bucky and he’s  _ expecting  _ more from this conversation. He has answers to give, he has a memory that isn’t clouded and murky, isn’t mixed and scrambled and broken. He can tell Bucky what he wants to hear—or what he really, really doesn’t. 

“Just tell me. Was it something you wanted, Steve? ‘Cause I remember it all, I remember every other fuckin’ detail, but I can’t remember what you said or what you did and I can’t live with myself not knowing.” It feels like a weight off his chest, but only for a moment, only for a heartbeat, because Steve looks absolutely  _ stricken.  _ His hand leaves Bucky’s arm, falls down to the counter with an echoing thud. The silence chokes Bucky, threatens to take all the air from his lungs, to drown him in nothingness. The silence—it’s an answer, isn’t it?

“How long? How long have you remembered for?” Steve answers with a question again, avoiding the real subject at hand. It’s killing Bucky. It’s a knife between his ribs, the idea that he had coerced Steve, that he had forced him into something—anything—he didn’t want. He wouldn’t do that, right? He loved Steve—he  _ loves _ Steve. But maybe he was blind, maybe he was selfish, maybe, maybe maybe…

“A few weeks? I...started having dreams. I couldn’t tell if they were real, sometimes the memories come back like that. I didn’t think it could be, but it felt…” He shakes his head. They’ve already established that these are memories, that Bucky wasn’t going mad with some nearly century-old fantasy. They’re only retreading now, and Steve is avoiding a real answer. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Steve does first.

“Real. Because it was. But,” Steve takes a step closer to Bucky, so they’re almost chest-to-chest, they’re so close. Bucky doesn’t know what he expects, but it isn’t for Steve to take his hand, to squeeze it and to draw it to his chest, “try to remember? The first time. I know it’s in there, you’re so close…”

Steve is pleading and Bucky is reeling. He can feel Steve’s heart pounding beneath his palm where it’s held in place and it feels so familiar, feels like the edge of a memory, just out of his reach. He bites his lip in frustration and he tries,  _ God _ he tries so hard to fill in the blanks. He can see the old apartment, see the nook of cabinets and counter that just barely passed as a kitchen. He can see Steve standing there, a head shorter at least.

“We were like this,” Bucky says slowly, and he knows it’s true even without the light in Steve’s eyes. He closes his own and he presses against the edges of his mind until his head hurts, until it’s forming so close, like a dream taking him by day. It was  _ just  _ like this, with his hand on Steve’s chest, with that hummingbird flutter beneath his palm. “You didn’t say anything. Just held my hand like this,” he presses his fingers in to illustrate his point, “I was scared. Thought you were havin’ a fit…”

“Probably wasn’t far from it,” Bucky can feel a rumble of laughter through Steve’s chest and he’s starting to ease, starting to feel like maybe he had been wrong, maybe it hadn’t been something so misguided, so unthinkable. His brow scrunches and he concentrates while Steve encourages, “You’ve got it, Buck. What happened next?”

Bucky is almost there. He can taste Steve on him again, faint hints of toothpaste beneath coffee. He can feel shallow breaths against his lips, can feel that slender chest beneath his fingers. He’s so close, reaching impossibly for something just beyond his grasp. He’s trying, aching over it.

“Then I kissed you. No—”

“—No.” Steve stops him as Bucky corrects himself and it’s like an epiphany, like all the light in the world shining on him at once. It’s warmth bubbling up in his chest, it’s his heart speeding to match Steve’s, it’s his eyes flicking open and finding those perfect ones looking at him.

“Then you kissed me.” Bucky corrects himself and he sees Steve’s smile, feels that hand tighten around his, and there’s a rush of relief, a flood of memory. Steve, getting up on his toes, just barely reaching Bucky’s lips. Bucky being sure the act would kill the poor guy, but not being able to hold himself back, not being able to stop something he had wanted so badly, for so long. Because he had wanted it all along, and then it had turned out they  _ both  _ had. Revelations upon revelations.

“You had just enlisted, and I was gonna be left behind. I loved you so much, I thought I’d die if I didn’t at least try.” Steve’s voice is rough, but he’s smiling, he’s smiling and he’s lifting Bucky’s hand again, brushing it over his lips. Bucky steps in, closes what little distance remained between them. He feels an ache through his chest, through his whole body.

_ I loved you _ . 

Then what was this, now? He tries to swallow, but his throat is thick and dry and he can’t quite remember how to make the muscles contract there, how to do anything more complicated than breathing. And he isn’t sure he’s even got  _ that _ down any more. Steve’s eyes are on him and he’s waiting for a response, that much is clear. But Bucky doesn’t know what that should be. Should he be confessing, the way he’s known he’s felt even before he remembered? Should he be begging Steve, telling him he could love him again, that he’s  _ here _ now and he’s not leaving?

“I...felt the same. Forever. Didn’t think anything could ever come of it.” And maybe he still doesn’t, maybe Bucky is still waiting for that shoe to drop, for Steve to laugh it all off as memories of another life. Maybe he’s waiting for his heart to be really and properly shattered, because it would just be so easy, so incredibly easy for Steve to do that. It wouldn’t take anything but a word, a look, a step away. Bucky can’t stand being so fragile, but he can’t be anything else, not when he’s this close. Not when  _ they’re  _ this close.

“So when did it change?” Steve doesn’t sound like he wants to ask the question, which is funny, because Bucky was very much not wanting to ask the same thing. And how does he answer? Does he tell him that it never changed? It can’t entirely be true, because he’s cause of enough old injuries to know that there was a time when there was none of him left in his brain, when he couldn’t work out who Steve was or what he meant. But even then, when the bridges began to build, when he began to work it out, before they wiped him again…

“Guess it never really did. Got buried for a while, but it never went away.” Bucky doesn’t apologize for it, though maybe he should. He knows things changed for Steve. He remembers the looks shared between him and Agent Carter. He remembers them with a fire in the pit of his belly. He remembers them well enough that he’s about to take a step back, except that Steve’s still holding his hand. Why the hell is Steve still holding his hand? “Look, I know it doesn’t matter anymore. I know—”

“—You know a whole lot for a guy who couldn’t remember  _ I  _ kissed  _ him  _ first about five minutes ago,” Steve’s interruption is firm, if not without a hint of jest. Bucky is still off his footing, feeling close to a fall at any moment. He still doesn’t know where he stands, not exactly, and Steve seems perfectly amused by the fact.  _ Punk _ .       

“So tell me what I don’t know.” Bucky phrases it as a challenge, but there’s little heart in it. He doesn’t want to be let down lightly—he doesn’t want to be let down at all. He doesn’t want to think that Steve is gripping his hand with such crushing force because he just doesn’t know how to let go. But they’d gone months together without Steve saying a word, and—

—and Steve is kissing him. Just like that, just like he remembers, really and truly remembers. The angle is different now, nobody standing on their toes. And Steve doesn’t feel so frail when he slips Bucky’s hand back to his chest, doesn’t feel like he could so easily run out of air and keel over in front of him. He feels solid and warm, like comfort and like  _ home _ . It’s so familiar, Bucky feels like they’d never stopped, like there had never been a time he  _ didn’t  _ remember. 

He swipes his tongue across Steve’s lips and they part for him and he knows that taste as well as he knows anything in this world. He knows the feeling of their tongues sliding together. He knows the heat of breath when they part, when their foreheads press against one another. He knows the furious thump of Steve’s heart beneath his hand, and he knows the squeeze above and around it, knows the way this all goes, and he wants to think he knows what comes next.

“You don’t know how long I was waiting for that.” Steve’s voice is quiet now, breathy. His cheeks are flush and he somehow looks more alive than Bucky has ever seen him. Bucky, hell, he laughs just a little bit at Steve’s words and he shakes his head at them.

“Think I have some idea.”   


	2. More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Think I have some idea.” And Bucky does, maybe. He has an idea, in any case, about how long he’s been waiting, and it’s a hell of a lot longer than he’s been remembering. It’s a hell of a lot longer than he can count, because after those cold nights in Brooklyn, even before he became what he is—was—it was over. Like a whisper in a crowd, just a few stolen moments in a lifetime far too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One in the mornin', one at night. Hope y'all enjoy. More self-indulgent than the last chapter even. The fic can be pretty thoroughly enjoyed with just the first chapter, so if you don't want pure smut, you might wanna skip this one.

“Think I have some idea.” And Bucky does, maybe. He has an idea, in any case, about how long  _ he’s _ been waiting, and it’s a hell of a lot longer than he’s been remembering. It’s a hell of a lot longer than he can count, because after those cold nights in Brooklyn, even before he became what he is— _ was _ —it was over. Like a whisper in a crowd, just a few stolen moments in a lifetime far too long.

“And what about the  _ more _ ?” Steve’s question catches Bucky by surprise, but only for a second. He’s quick on his feet now, his senses only sharpened by the realizations the last few minutes have afforded him. He smirks, and he wants to say that the  _ more  _ is more than welcome, now that they have all the time in the world. But there’s a point that remains, and it’s driving at his heart, making him hesitate.

“I didn’t ask you. When it changed.” Bucky didn’t ask because he didn’t need to, though. He had known almost as soon as Steve had broken him out of that hell, certainly as soon as he got him to safety. He wasn’t the sort of guy—wasn’t sure there  _ was  _ a sort of guy—who held a candle to Peggy Carter.   

“You’re just gonna argue me when I say it didn’t.” Steve always sees right through him, and with that, Bucky can hardly put up a point against him. And, hell, the idea that Steve still held those feelings, despite everything else? It puts a warmth in Bucky’s chest and spreads it across his cheeks to the point that he almost— _ almost _ —looks away. But he doesn’t want to look away from Steve, not now and not ever, and that makes it all the more difficult.

“The whole world knows who Steve Rogers’ heart belongs to, pal.” Bucky isn’t backing away when he says it, though. Instead, his lips are brushing Steve’s again, parting them and pressing in, an attempt to kill any further protest. Maybe he doesn’t need to be the person Steve  _ loves _ . Maybe he can be happy just being the person Steve  _ wants  _ right now. It sure feels good to think he’s that.

“And you and the whole world know it better than me, right?” Steve is playful at first, but his face grows serious and he puts an arm’s length between himself and Bucky—quite literally, with his hand on Bucky’s shoulder to push him back that length. It hurts like hell, not being close any more, hurts in a way Bucky wouldn’t, couldn’t have imagined. “You aren’t competing with anyone here, Buck. It’s possible to love more than one person over the course of a century.”

And when he puts it like that, Bucky can’t help but feel just a little bit like a complete and utter ass. He lowers his gaze from Steve’s, much as it pains him to do so. But,  _ God _ , it’s not so bad staring at the guy a little bit lower, taking in all that cut muscle and inviting curve. He wants to be close again, but when he tries to step forward, Steve’s grip on his shoulder doesn’t loosen.

“I’ve done a lot. Not much that can be forgiven. I don’t blame you for—”

“—If we’re talking about what we don’t blame each other for, this is gonna take a while.” Steve is still being firm with him and Bucky kinda hates it. He  _ deserves  _ to be taking responsibility for what he’s done, whether Steve sees that or not. And if that responsibility means losing something so precious…well, other people have lost a lot more thanks to him, haven’t they? He feels a little choked, like his chest is growing too small and the air around him too thin. And maybe Steve sees through that too, because he relents and he draws Bucky into his arms, even as a sigh heaves from his chest.

“I shouldn’t have asked.” Bucky makes an apology of the words, one arm circling around Steve’s waist, deepening the embrace. He still feels off-balance again, like the world has tilted just a few degrees. But that isn’t such an uncommon feeling when he’s so close to Steve, when they’re so close to  _ something _ . He wants more kissing, wants more  _ more _ , but he contents himself with his cheek pressed to Steve’s chest, with the sound of his heartbeat echoing through his head. 

“Not if you’re gonna fight about the answer.” Steve sighs again and he pauses, then he lifts Bucky’s chin. It’s enough to have Bucky’s head properly spinning, his body heating in hope of another kiss, another reward to combat the rebuke. Instead, Steve smirks, “And you didn’t answer me.”

Bucky almost has to reach back in his mind to recall the question— _ What about more?  _ It makes the breath leave him again, but this time it’s all pleasant, all a much-needed distraction. He doesn’t want to keep thinking about who Steve does or doesn’t, did or didn’t love. He’d be overjoyed to believe Steve’s words, but…well, one step at a time, isn’t it? He opens his mouth to ask if that’s what  _ Steve  _ wants, but he realizes before the words come that he’s only avoiding the question again.

“My sheets are in the wash because I’ve been thinkin’ too much about  _ more _ .” Bucky jokes, but he does it with the honest truth. He had woken up to a heavy erection with the most fleshed-out dream of  _ more  _ yet. Then he had jerked himself into the sheets with Steve’s name on his lips, hidden his face in his pillow, pretended he was sharing Steve’s bed, sharing his breaths, getting their hands wrapped around each other… and, yeah, Bucky is blushing at the memory now, under Steve’s scrutiny.

“So you’re tellin’ me you’re not ready for  _ more  _ more.” Steve is absolutely teasing him and Bucky is rising to the bait, his head lifting upward and his eyes narrowing. He’s wearing a smirk now, because he can’t help it, can’t help but give in to what’s clearly phrased as a challenge. He’s never been able to say no to one posed by Steve, anyway.

“Don’t remember sayin’ that,” Bucky says calmly, evenly, his head tilting to the side. God, he wants more. He wants everything Steve has to offer. He probably wants more than  _ that _ , too. Hell, he knows he does, because he still can’t bring himself to trust Steve’s words when it comes to everything else. As much as he wants to. As much as he needs to, he can’t let himself. But he can deal with that hurdle later, can’t he? Steve certainly seems willing to let it go for the moment.

“Then we’re putting my sheets in the wash after?” Steve’s hands shift, find Bucky’s hips and give a good squeeze. It’s enough to start the slow rush of heat downward, enough to have Bucky sucking in a deep breath between his teeth. It feels good, just that bit of contact, just knowing that Steve still has—always  _ had _ —that interest in him.

“Unless you wanna sleep in all that mess. Wouldn’t really advise that, though.” They’re still playing their game, dancing around any of the emotion attached to what they’re about to do. Dancing around even  _ saying  _ it out loud. But Steve is guiding Bucky, backwards at first, then turning him to push him lightly toward his bedroom. Bucky could mistake it all for chaste, if it weren’t for the way Steve’s hands slide and move to grip his ass, to give a firm squeeze at rounded flesh while they meander down the hall.           __

It’s a little bit strange to be guided into Steve’s room, all pretense aside. Bucky hasn’t spent much time there, much as he may have wanted to. Much as he may have dreamt of. It’s set up simply, with the bed to one side, a closed closet, a desk against another wall. He doesn’t really take the time to observe all the trappings, though, because Steve is pushing him to the mattress and Bucky is all too happy to oblige in letting his feet go out from under him.

What he expects is for Steve to press him right back against that mattress. Instead, he’s slotting himself between Bucky’s knees and he’s lowering to kiss him again. This time, it’s all heat, all  _ want _ . It’s tongues and teeth, lapping and tugging at lips. It’s enough to set that slow rush of arousal boiling in Bucky’s blood, as if the squeezes to his hips, to his ass weren’t enough already.

“This isn’t how we used to do it,” Bucky isn’t protesting, only making a statement, one that’s strangled off when Steve’s lips begin working down his throat instead, sucking in at a pulse point, doubtless leaving a heavy red mark that will linger as he pauses. He swallows heavily when Steve is kissing lower still, a wet hot trail down the center of his chest as he takes himself to his knees. He drags his tongue over one nipple, makes Bucky gasp before he parts.

“You’d rather do that?” Steve cocks his head and he has the good grace to look wounded, as if Bucky would actually turn down the promise between his knees. He really  _ is  _ a fucking punk, and Bucky would say it if his mind wasn’t suddenly clouded with so much want, so much  _ need _ , so much heated thought of  _ more _ .

“Not a chance.” Bucky hisses through gritted teeth and it’s encouragement enough that Steve continues that excellent onslaught. His teeth tug lightly over one nipple, his fingers moving to play attention at the other. Bucky hadn’t even known he was sensitive there but, god damn it, somehow Steve did. Did they touch each other like this back then? The details are still hazy, still lost in the dimness of returning memory. And Bucky’s mind is too clouded to dig the truth out of himself.

He’s fully hard by the time Steve’s tongue is tracing down his abdomen, and maybe he should be feeling some sort of way about getting there so easily when he’s just gotten off. But there’s no hint of shame, not with the skilled way Steve’s tongue moves or the obvious intent he moves it with. And there’s no real pride, when again, it’s all Steve here, coaxing his body to life, coaxing his cock hard against his sweatpants. 

“You really  _ do  _ want more, huh?” Steve’s fingers tug uselessly at Bucky’s waistband while his cheek nuzzles in against the tent of his cock. Bucky lifts his hips to allow Steve access, to let him easily slip the sweats down to the floor. And, of course, he takes his sweet fucking time with it.  _ Definitely  _ a little punk, even now.

“You never shut up, do you?” Bucky feigns irritability, but he would probably die happy with Steve just speaking to him from between his legs, feeling the heat of breath against his erection, feeling the grip of hands spreading his thighs. His heart feels ready to burst with anticipation, with the way that Steve  _ looks _ , settled neatly between his legs, all fluttering lashes and perfect blue aimed up with deadly precision. 

“Not unless I’ve got somethin’ better to do with my mouth.” That cocky little smile could be enough to do Bucky in under even the best of circumstances. And these circumstances are heavily tilted in Steve’s favor to begin with. So he groans again and lifts his hips once more, this time easing his cock in against Steve’s cheek.

“Think I can come up with somethin’ better.” He reaches to plant his hand at the back of Steve’s head and, thank God, Steve lets him guide him. He’s entirely receptive, laying a heavy, open-mouthed kiss to the head of Bucky’s cock when he reaches it. It’s enough to draw out a heady moan, to tilt Bucky’s head back some degrees.

Bucky doesn’t want to know how Steve got so good at what he’s doing, but there’s no denying he has a certain talent for it. He works slow at first, with long swipes of his tongue up and down Bucky’s shaft, tracing veins, working in hot, flat motions. One hand remains gripping his open thigh while the other plays lower, rolling Bucky between his fingers, making his head go blissfully blank.

He could scream when Steve’s lips finally wrap around him properly and Bucky damn near does. Instead, he manages to hiss out Steve’s name, a low breath that wins eyes twinkling up at him from that lower station. Then it’s all over, or it may as well be, because Steve is taking him in deep, and there’s a beautiful wet heat constricting around him, curling his toes and sending his fingers to grip in Steve’s hair. 

He wants to say that it’s good, that it’s better than fucking good, but words are suddenly real damn hard to come by. Steve isn’t bottoming him out, but his hand is making up the difference and his head is moving quick and eager and,  _ God  _ Bucky _ really  _ doesn’t need to be thinking about the details of why Steve is so damn good at this.

It’s absolute bliss. It’s a million dreams come true—ones that he never mistook as memories, ones that were too hazy and happy to have ever been real. It’s absolute agony when Steve starts working slow, heavy licks again. It’s his mind going to pieces as Steve’s tongue swirls around the head, licks the bitter from his slit, bears down on him again. It’s dizzying and it’s so fucking satisfying and Steve looks so good between his knees when Bucky has the cognizance to actually  _ look _ .

His fingers remain tangled in that mess of hair, just long enough that he can tug and guide. He feels the scratch of beard at the insides of his thighs and he could die for it, he really could. He could die for all of this and he would be so happy, so fucking thrilled to have been given the opportunity to do so. And suddenly his fingers are tightening and he’s so close, he’s so  _ fucking  _ close, and he doesn’t want to stop Steve, but he does, he gives a little tug and a whimper of his name, and he sounds so pathetic but he doesn’t care.

“‘m close. Fuck, Steve, I’m real close.” And maybe it doesn’t need to be said, given the way Bucky’s thighs are trembling, the way his balls are drawn tight and his stomach is clenching tighter. There’s so much heat welled up inside, a coil ready to spring forth, a match ready to ignite, a fuse about to blow.

“Go on then,” Steve keeps his face so close he can feel the heat of breath on him while his hand strokes over the saliva slick. He thumbs over him, expertly, because this part he knows so well, this part is a memory relived. “Come for me.”

And damned if Bucky doesn’t do it right on command, if he isn’t spilling, making a mess of Steve’s face and his hand right with those words. If his mind isn’t reeling through euphoria with that order. If he doesn’t lose sight of everything else in favor of his own pleasure, his fingers moving idly through Steve’s hair, his head hung back while his chest heaves.

And Steve, oh god, Steve looks perfect when he can open his eyes again. He’s lifting himself from the floor and he’s hard as hell beneath those pants. He’s all hazy, lust-filled eyes and sharply defined muscle and everything feels a little bit too good for it to be true with him standing there, then sidling up beside Bucky in the bed. The afterglow feels like the remnants of a dream, a really fucking pleasant one that he doesn’t want to shake, and something that Steve doesn’t pull him from.

“Good to see you remember who’s in charge.” Steve teases him, and it really is a tease, because Bucky is pretty sure he doesn’t remember  _ either  _ of them ever being in any sort of control of the situation. He hisses a  _ punk  _ from between his teeth, but he’s smiling, and he’s moving slowly to get to his own knees, to eagerly return the favor.

Steve stops him though, slings an arm across Bucky’s chest and shakes his head. He turns and, with an easy motion, he swoops Bucky from beneath his legs, heaves him to lay down on the mattress. Then he eases him, urges him to make room for Steve to lay too. A thrill runs down Bucky’s spine and he shudders for the promise of what comes next. Because he doesn’t really know what comes next, other than that it’s  _ Steve _ .

Bucky expects Steve to press him further into the mattress, to hover over him, to give some new harsh command, something that Bucky is inexplicably ready to obey. But instead, he turns on his side, away from Bucky so he’s facing the room at large. He slots himself so he can draw Bucky’s right arm under his side, pull his hand firm against his chest. And that is the moment where Bucky understands what it is Steve wants.

“Like before?” Bucky asks, but he doesn’t really need to. This feels so familiar it sets off an aching in his chest and suddenly the memory is  _ there _ . It’s tangible and real and Bucky can remember with such a ferocity it almost takes the breath out of him. He can feel the difference now, with the considerably bulkier weight of Steve on his arm, and of course with the difference in his left hand, peeling at the waistband of Steve’s pants.

“Yeah, Buck. Just like before. You remember.” There’s some wonder in Steve’s voice there, like he didn’t really believe Bucky had gotten there, like he didn’t believe it was something that could be pulled back from the depths of his brain. Bucky doesn’t blame him for any doubt, he feels enough of it himself, even now that he can see it all clear as fucking day. 

“I remember.” He confirms, but he frowns and he spreads the metal hand across Steve’s pelvis, not taking his pants down just yet. He has sensation there now, to a startling extent, but it’s still different. And it will be different for Steve, more importantly. It’s not  _ just like before _ however much either of them wants to say it is. They’ve both changed and… “Is this gonna be okay?” 

“It’s still you. Still us. That’s what matters,” Steve hums and his hand tightens over Bucky’s against his chest. He can already feel the heavy throb of his heart, quick and steady, ready to set the pace the same as they did back in that drafty old apartment. It’s stronger now, less fluttering, more pounding. It reassures Bucky, steadies him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the same, either.”  

“Ya don’t say.” Bucky can’t help but smile at Steve’s teasing. It puts him at ease, and slowly he works Steve’s pants down, just far enough to let his cock spring free. Okay, so  _ plenty _ about Steve has changed. It doesn’t stop Bucky from groaning at the sight, that’s for damn sure. And it definitely doesn’t stop him from wrapping his hand around him, thumbing over the slit to spread precum along the shaft.

Steve gets quiet here, while Bucky works his hand around him, acclimating to the new sensation in his new hand, the new sensation of a man who really has been enhanced in countless ways. It’s easy to make it familiar, though. Because he remembers the weight of Steve’s body pressed back against his chest, even if that weight is far more substantial now. He remembers the fluttering pulse beneath his palm and he seeks it out, takes his reassurance there.

And reassurance isn’t hard to find, the way Steve’s heart works nearly double-time beneath Bucky’s palm once he starts stroking him. It’s easy to set his pace that way, to work quicker and quicker, until Steve is breathless and writhing against him, until it’s almost impossible to keep up. He presses kisses into Steve’s shoulder, something all warm affection, something he remembers just as keenly as everything else from their younger days. He wants to press kisses  _ all over  _ him, but that will have to wait, with the difficult angle and the quickly building tight heat.

“You like that.” Bucky breathes the statement into Steve’s ear, all heat, all roughness in his throat. He’s pleased with himself, really, because he feels like he hasn’t lost the feel for Steve even after all these years, all these changes, all these lifetimes between them. He can still bring him right up to the brink, hold him there, with his hand slowing, squeezing around the base, leaving him teetering on the edge.

“Jerk. Don’t stop.” Steve growls in response and he twists his neck best he can to shoot Bucky a glare over his shoulder. It’s utterly endearing, and it’s hot as hell, knowing how much he wants it. Bucky feels the heavy, unyielding jackhammer against his other hand and he could almost shudder at that alone. Yeah, Steve likes that, he wants it, his body is practically  _ begging  _ for it.

Bucky gives him another long, slow stroke, then another after that. Not enough to bring Steve back over the edge, to let him come tumbling into that perfect euphoria. Just enough to prolong, to keep him wanting, to keep him making delicious needy sounds in the back of his throat and slinging little inconsequential insults when Bucky doesn’t immediately relent. He waits, that slow and languid motion never quite stilling, and this is different from before.

When they were younger, it was all frantic need, all hands trapped together, working each other off in tandem. It was all heated breaths and stolen kisses and fire, so much fire between them. And that fire is still there, but Bucky is letting it smolder before it bursts full and bright and there’s something so goddamn satisfying about it. About the way Steve gasps and groans over the touches. About the way his heart feels like it may actually burst beneath Bucky’s fingertips.

“Bucky,  _ please _ ,” it isn’t until Steve is there, repeating that mantra, that Bucky relents. The begging really does him in, has his spent cock twitching just enough that there may be promise of another round in the not-too-distant future. He relents and he returns to those heavy strokes, his thumb gliding over the tip, dipping at his slit, wrist twisting and, ultimately, bringing one hell of a mess between them.

He doesn’t move his other arm from its spot, dutifully waiting until Steve’s heart slows from the frantic just-ran-a-marathon pace to something steady and even, slow and reassuring. And even then, Bucky only parts because his shoulder is cramping and his arm is aching, and Steve is just a lot of weight to keep on his arm for that long.

He has tissues at the side of the bed because, of course he does, and Bucky uses them to clean up his hand as best as he can manage before he hands them over to Steve. They’re still both a mess after the half-assed job, still could both probably use showers to get properly clean, but neither of them is leaving the bed. Steve is, in fact, tugging Bucky back down to the mattress and this time he’s the one tucked neatly inside of Steve’s arms.

This sensation is entirely new.

It had always been Bucky with his embrace clutched around Steve, Bucky being the protective one, Bucky being the one to do all the holding. But Steve can hold his own now, and he can hold Bucky too, and it feels damn good. It feels  _ too  _ damn good. Bucky almost pulls away, for the fact that he knows he doesn’t deserve that affection.

“‘S good, Buck. Real good.” Steve’s voice sounds dreamy, a little far-off. Bucky can recognize that voice, that afterglow haze he speaks through, and it sends a little thrill through him. Because  _ he  _ did that, he reduced Steve down to nothing just with his hand. He doesn’t quite stop himself from nuzzling against the other man’s chest, from making himself comfortable there against the instinct to pull away.

“Always been good.” Bucky says, and he says it more confidently than he spoke of the memory not so long ago. It was real, it was something Steve wanted—it’s something Steve still wants. It means the world to Bucky, means every goddamn thing. His chest feels heavy, heart swollen with emotion, and he doesn’t know where to put it, so he leans up to brush his lips along Steve’s jaw, and that feels like the right thing to do.

“I  _ do  _ still love you.” Steve’s voice sounds a little clearer as he pedals back to their old disagreement. It makes Bucky tense up, makes him ready for a fight, but how ready can he be? How much does he really want to argue it, versus how much he really wants to  _ believe _ it. So he directs the argument elsewhere, his lips quirking into a smirk.

“Fine. I still love you  _ more _ .” It’s grossly domestic, makes him feel like he’s young and head-over-heels again, and maybe in some ways he is. Maybe, in the ways that count, he  _ absolutely  _ is. Steve only kisses his temple and calls him a jerk and they both resign themselves to staying there, just like that, for a long while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have a personal [tumblr](http://stinuhh.tumblr.com) that is mostly stucky reblogging, but I'm pretty all over the place so don't feel compelled to check it out. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a proper blog home right now, but I'm trying to learn how to [twitter](https://twitter.com/stinuhhhh).


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